Residue
by smalld1171
Summary: Set early season 4. Our elder Winchester son has returned but that doesn't necessarily mean he didn't bring a little something back with him. Rated for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**Residue**

_Hi everyone. This story will be a multi-chapter and is set early season 4 shortly after Dean's return. Our elder Winchester son has returned but that doesn't necessarily mean he didn't bring a little something back with him. Let me know what you think if you like._

_P.S. I know I have a plethora of unfinished stories floating around and that it has been EONS since I have posted any updates. To be honest I have looked at them all and continue to draw either a complete blank or if I manage to write anything, it sucks entirely. So, having said that, I hope that this story will get my creative juices flowing again and allow me to finish up some oldies I have on the go._

_Disclaimer: I own NOTHING._

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"If you're through, can we go now?"

"Dean, for the last time, we're not ready. Haven't you been listening to me?"

"Well, I was but I tend to tune you out after the first hour. C'mon Sam, enough with the look. Jesus, what's the problem? Look, _you_ can stay here with all your books and your research and your herbal teas and whatever else makes you happy and in the mean time I'll go take care of business cuz this conversation? So over dude, I'm done."

Sam glares at this brother and opens his mouth to respond but instead sighs in frustration and closes it with an audible pop. Fearful of seeing nothing but the trail of dust that will linger after Dean bolts from the room, not to mention from _him_, it's time for Sam to change his tactics. He knows that Dean isn't back up to par yet, and having him go out on a hunt alone is out of the question.

Sam sends Dean his best 'please listen to me' look and tries again, determined not to let his brother out of his sight.

"Dude, just humour me alright? We need to sit down and talk it out like we always do, like we always have. I don't want you, or us, to run into something until you at least hear me out, so just try to relax for a minute and let's work together on this. Okay?"

There is a slump in Dean's stance and the weary sigh that follows tells Sam he has at least bought himself some time.

"Whatever Samantha, but if someone else dies…"

The pointed look Dean nails him with makes Sam's face flush and his hands clench. He sets his jaw and turns his back to his brother to make his way into the bathroom in an effort to cool off, Dean's smartass comments and holier than thou attitude hitching a ride the entire way. As he steps into the room and takes a glance back he feels satisfied that, at least for the moment, his brother is too content and pleased with Sam's reaction to his latest insinuation to sneak out of the room and drive himself right into a bad situation.

"Dean, just… you know I'm right. We need to be careful about this; going in blind is a bad idea."

He lets out a huff as he turns the tap, splashing a handful of cool water on his face to try and subdue his rising temperature; his older brother proving once again that he is a master of crawling under his skin.

They had been discussing the best way to hunt down the thing that had been terrorizing the town, with Sam adamant that they need to do more research and Dean the exact opposite, chomping at the bit to stop wasting time and get it done.

Sam sighs as he thinks about Dean's behaviour since he came back; since he was rescued from down under. He'd only been back a few days when Sam started to notice the changes; not being able to sit still; unable to stop for even a damn minute; the distant, haunted look that would flicker and shine through his features before he could reattach the mask. It's those signs, accompanied by the constant and ever increasing alcohol consumption that signified to Sam that yes indeed, Dean remembers all too well what happened to him, and it is tearing him apart inside.

He shakes his head and returns to thoughts of their current stand-off. Volley after volley had been thrown, each brother coming back with their own brand of logic on the subject. Sam has tried hard to brush off the irritability and mood swings of his older sibling but Dean's renewed zest to hunt anything and everything is wearing them both down, and it has to stop before one of them gets hurt, or worse.

Sam is suddenly attune to the silence he's now in, his last comment left to float in the air for so long that he lets out another gust of air while he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His agitation starts to rise at the realization that Dean is no longer even bothering with some witty retort but ignoring him altogether, forfeiting Sam's chance to counter Dean's irrational argument with his logical and sound one.

"Ignoring what I say isn't going to change the fact that we need to find out what we're dealing with before we go in guns blazing, Dean."

Another minute of silence and Sam's had enough; drying his hands haphazardly before exiting the small room with the sole intent of meeting Dean's stubbornness head on; his recklessness since their reunion straining Sam's patience to its breaking point.

When he spots his brother standing strangely by his open duffel bag Sam instantly feels the shift; gone is the irritation towards Dean for being a stupid jerk, born is the foreboding sense that something is definitely wrong. For a moment the younger brother doesn't move, his eyes trying to absorb what it is that they see.

"Dean? Hey man, what are you doing?"

Sam approaches cautiously, trying to get his brother's attention yet not wanting to spook him. He stops when he comes up beside him and the glazed look on Dean's face speaks more than any words he could say.

Dean isn't ignoring him. Dean didn't answer because it's more likely his brother didn't even hear the words. His older brother is almost motionless, his eyes yielding the only clue that he is still conscious as they roam across the surface of the knife with a look of appreciation.

A chill runs through Sam when he steps closer and Dean still doesn't acknowledge his presence, his focus remaining intently on the blade and his lips curling into a disturbing smile.

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**TBC... Thanks for stopping by.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Part 2 - Dean's POV_

_Hi and welcome back. Thanks for any who are taking the time to read this and for those who left reviews, I appreciate it! I hope you will enjoy._

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Dean watches his brother's back as he marches his way into the bathroom and decides to lay off the smartass comments and give the kid a break.

"Dean, just… you know I'm right. We need to be careful about this; going in blind is a bad idea."

A small smile flitters across Dean's face at that; at how it's just like his brother to play the good guy. The quirk in his lips fades quickly at the frustration and tiredness evident in his brother's voice. He knows the thoughtless insinuation he just threw out towards Sam would have cut into him like a razor blade, leaving a painful wound in their wake and their message clear; that if someone else dies it will be because of Sam's procrastination.

A fresh round of guilt is left to trickle over him and he pinches his nose in a vain attempt to try and allay it; the constant drone of regret and fatigue having permanently infiltrated and infused every single moment of his existence.

Dean thinks back on Sam's reaction and their relationship since his supposed miraculous return from the pit. He has picked up on the increased glances, the concerned actions and looks, the quiet conversations with Bobby when Sam thought he was out; about how his brother thinks he has changed somehow. Well, that could be the understatement of the century; you can't go to Hell and back and expect to come out unscathed, especially when…

He shakes his head to clear it, a myriad of horrors playing out in his mind and rushing to the forefront, threatening to take his breath away. This feeling; this never ending cloud of perpetual darkness that hangs over him like a shroud of death is the reason; it's why he can't slow down or take a break. Dean can feel it; the fragile tendrils of his sanity being eaten away, stretched and contorted to the verge of snapping. It isn't a solution and it won't stop the inevitable but Dean has to delay it; he can't let the genie out of the bottle, at least not yet. He can't bear the thought of Sam knowing what he went through; of what he did, but he also knows that Sam is on to him and that it's only a matter of time before his last thread will snap and Sam will push him and insist on hearing all the gory details. The sting of tears accompanies that thought; Sam shouldn't be made to feel the specter of shame and torment that comes from the suffering of others, it is Dean alone who should be made to take on that weight and burden.

Weary and sluggish legs saunter languidly over to where his bag rests on the floor; his mind and body aching to flee the suffocating stillness and relative silence of the motel; the thought of sitting and researching and doing nothing but _thinking_ flooding him with nausea and the twinge of panic. Sam doesn't understand and Dean will do all he can to make sure he never does.

A shaking hand dives into the duffel to retrieve the flask; its contents now serving as a method of escape as well as dependence, no longer the reward of a job well done. The amber liquid passes his lips and he sighs, his eyes closing as the burn coats his throat and swaths a path of false, comforting warmth until it settles the sickness that resides in the pit of his stomach.

Before he can take a breath the container is empty, his thirst for relief so raw and unquenchable that he doesn't stop until that decision is taken from him. Sorrowful eyes look towards the small room that Sam occupies and when the hatred of inaction swarms from within he silently apologizes to his brother; the need to keep moving and do _something_ far outweighing any hesitation he had for putting Sam's feelings at risk.

Dean cannot stay here, unmoving and stagnant and Sam will cave; he will do what Dean wants because he knows just what buttons to push and that is exactly what he will do to avoid Sam having to witness him break.

With the slight, dulling effect of alcohol heightening his determination to get this hunt underway, Dean replaces the flask and opens up the sack that houses the tools of their trade. Dean figures if he's got all their fugly-killing goods cleaned, polished and ready to go in record time it will make Sam more susceptible to his persuasive charms.

He scans the contents and spots something odd yet unexplainably beautiful; it draws his attention away from the guns and the salt, the iron and the lighter fluid to rest upon its unnatural allure.

The sensation, the tingle in his fingers as he pulls the object from the duffel bag takes him by surprise and he has to suppress the tiny gasp that threatens to flutter past his lips. The electricity that seems to carry its way along his veins to swarm throughout his body causes just the right euphoria to negate whatever else had been happening up to that exact point in time. His mind briefly tries to reach out to whatever reality had just held it firm, but there is no denying the intensity of power that surges through him and his surroundings begin to fade, his attention solely diverted into the precision carving device held within his grasp.

Nothing else matters; nothing else exists.

He flexes the digits of his hand around the base and raises the weapon in the air, any memories of where he is forgotten, his eyes fixated on the way the light reflects and shimmers off the steel blade. He suddenly feels whole; like he had been walking around in a fog without mission or purpose, not realizing what part of the puzzle he was missing, until now. The piece has clicked into place and as the weight in his hand lightens and the blade becomes an extension of his body he knows what it signifies; the answer to the question that he had been searching for has been found, his purpose coming through loud and clear.

He knows exactly what this weapon is capable of; of how to maximize its effects on any who have chosen, by their own deeds, to stand directly in its path. It is an instrument of redemption and atonement and he has been chosen; has been given the opportunity and priveledge to carry out each of those and enable the blade to perform as it was meant to; to carry out the reason for its very existence.

His lips curl into a smile of awe and fondness and his entire being aches to be put to use to exact justice on those most deserving; the way he had _before_ he was torn away, without provocation or his consent, from the destiny which he had come to embrace and perfect.

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_TBC..._


End file.
